To Want a Dream
by scelerus animus
Summary: Dark likes to lie to himself. DarkKrad.


Author Notes: -twitches- So... I wrote this...And it's very disjointed and very weird, I think. And short. Bleh. Not entirely pleased with it but. Whatever. Hope you enjoy! o.O

**disclaimer:** disclaim'd

**notes/warnings:** DarkKrad, kinda dark-ish and angst-y, and Krad being... well, Krad; what more can you expect?

Written for Evi. Because she wanted me to write a DarkKrad ficie and, after many headaches and much procrastination, I finally did. Happy Valentines!

So without further ado...

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To Want a Dream  
by scelerus animus

—

Dark is cocky; Dark is arrogant; Dark is always in control because, frankly, he knows he always can be in control.

Nevertheless, in this place of monotonous gray, Dark's control slips through his fingers like a dream that cunningly escapes the mind when one awakens. In this mind-numbing limbo of existence, one could almost call him obedient, even begging. Fortunately for him, no one will ever see him see like this, in this loathsomely captivating place, because there are only two beings ever allowed to tread into this gray abyss of fantasy where reality has no power.

For this, Dark is painstakingly grateful.

When he is back thieving in the world of mortals while host to a new Tamer, there is no one who will know the truth and can accuse him of lying when he convinces himself that all of it had merely been a dream.

Except for golden eyes, of course.

—

Often, in this languid void of wearisome gray, there are kisses and touches and whispers and gasps.

Skin on skin, slick and hot and flushed, again, again, again, so teasing, so taunting that all Dark can do is beg and moan—moan for more, for it never, ever stop, forever, forever—

Yes, Dark hazily thinks with his mind clouded by shameless lust, he wouldn't mind spending eternity like this.

Nevertheless, once he is back in the world of mortals bound to his new Tamer, Dark would never admit to anything he has contemplated or anything that has happened in this dreary world suddenly filled with blinding, mind-flaying colors.

At present, however, there are only those beguiling kisses and that deviously addicting, silken voice that Dark could hate yet desperately could—_love?_—need to hear at the same time.

There are only feral gold eyes that callously pierce his soul and burn, with a mocking accuracy, like a knife aimed to kill.

And that—yes, _that _is white, blinding, blazing pain, his very self being pitilessly torn in countless, bloody pieces, and it is ache, a heartrending sound helplessly breaking and shattering beneath the soundless weight of icy gold.

It is this pain—this _torture_—that makes Dark wonder if he could survive eternity like this.

_Being in love._

Since he is fond of lying to himself, however, Dark will never admit that these all-consuming sensations could ever be related to a thing such as _love_, of course.

—

While brutal, blasphemous lips as soft as velvet press tantalizing kisses to the flushed skin of his neck, possessively sucking, licking, biting—sometimes there are whispers of the deceptive thing deemed _love._

Simply because Dark selfishly craves to hear that silkily devious voice did not mean he couldn't loathe it with all his being.

_"You still love me, don't you, Dark Mousy?"_

Gold was such a pretty color, Dark hazily muses as teeth graze his ear, a warm tongue tauntingly curving around the shell.

As his dazed, lust-filled gaze stares almost sickeningly transfixed by his tanned, agile hands tangled in brilliantly golden strands of hair, Dark reflects that one of the reasons gold is such an alluring color is because it makes this lifeless world of gray so agonizingly brilliant.

And it's so avariciously painful.

_"Yet you want to kill me, don't you, Dark Mousy? What is the problem, Dark? Can you not decide?"_

That silken voice is tenderly vicious, and it makes the words that much more acerbic. Soft kisses lustfully trace his jaw line, feral golden eyes gleam in the gray twilight, and a sharp hiss, almost a growl, escapes through Dark's clenched teeth.

_Dammit_, Dark vehemently thinks, _but you once loved me._

Then there is an undaunted, heartless laugh, and Dark realizes that he has forgotten that in this haunting place of gray, his thoughts do not need to be spoken to be heard.

_"It seems with each century that passes and each new Niwa you cherish and then must leave, you retain more of their foolish human sentimentalities. How pitiful, Dark Mousy." _

Furiously, Dark strikes out but is easily evaded. Now as he heatedly glares at the radiant figure of white and gold effortlessly, superciliously overwhelming the surrounding abyss of gray, Dark sharply feels the sudden of loss heat and warmth and—_love?_—lust. Like the ghostly fingers of memories long past but never forgotten, Dark can feel the icy, empty sensation of being utterly _alone _creep upon him, taunting him as that knowing smirk and malicious glitter in golden eyes does.

Something between a growl and a snarl escapes through Dark's clenched teeth once again as he instinctively gets into a defensive stance even while the chilling hollowness begins to travel devouringly throughout his body. Shivers and trembles and that completely vile sensation of being utterly _alone._

_"Ah, Niwas never have dealt with isolation and loneliness well. They crave the company of others, and you, being the curse of the Niwas, are the same, isn't that right Dark?"_

Once again, those smirking lips are pressed to his, soft and enticing and ever so manipulative.

Sometimes, Dark does not know which is more painful: drifting in this soulless gray abyss absolutely alone or constantly tempted by golden eyes and an acid tongue.

Of course, Krad knows this and takes infinite pleasure in twisting with Dark's troubled mind.

—

When adrift in this place, this irritatingly infinite abyss where time seems to have no power, Dark likes to think he never dreams.

Of course, when Dark has been summoned to the world of mortals by his new Tamer, he will knowingly contradict himself and obstinately convince himself that anything that may have happened in this timeless abyss of gray was all merely a dream.

It's all a pretty little, painful paradox in which Dark has eternally trapped himself, but he resolutely chooses to ignore that fact since he figures that his whole existence is a paradox anyway.

Besides, only mortals can dream, can hope, can—_can love—_and Dark knows, even if he likes to think he doesn't, that he never has been mortal.

Over the course of a few centuries as a bloodline curse to them, he naturally has acquired various traits associated with mortals and their sentimental mind-set. Or their sentimental trivialities, their _weaknesses_, in Krad's opinion, but then again that would be confirming that Krad is right, and Dark would rather seal himself than ever admit that.

So Dark knows that he can _love _and that he can _dream_, but to himself he persistently claims that he can do neither. It's absurd and illogical and paradoxical.

So, naturally, is just like when Dark allows and craves for those deviously silken lips to bruise his skin and a heartlessly silken voice to taint his thoughts, devour his mind, and he so desperately despises it.

Again, there are those tenderly cruel words and a possessively saccharine kiss against Dark's lips, and Dark cannot put up a fight.

_"You love me; you want to kill me. So hopeless, so foolish, so desperate. Yet why trouble your pretty little head, Dark Mousy, when you know that, as always, you will induce yourself to believe that this is all a warped dream?"_

A heartless laugh. A poisoned kiss.

_"I do not need to twist and torment your mind, Dark, since you do such a marvelous job yourself."_

Of course.

– _Owari –_

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End Notes: -twitches again- Eh... so what do you think? Review? Please? 


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